Killer Blonde (9 page)

P
rofessor Henry Zeller’s magnificent Tudor house was set back from the street on a blanket of lushly landscaped grounds, within spying distance of Casa Kingsley. I parked out front, and headed up the front path, past an impressive array of rose bushes. When I rang the bell, the chimes played the theme song from
The Sound of Music.

Professor Zeller answered the door, an elderly man festooned with liver spots. I figured he was somewhere between eighty and a birthday announcement on the
Today
show. He wore khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a plastic pocket protector. Once a scientist, always a scientist, I guess.

“May I help you?” he asked, blinking into the bright sunlight.

I assumed my most official voice.

“I’m here investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”

“Oh, dear.” He seemed flustered. “I already spoke with the police. Didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”

“I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator. May I come in?”

He hesitated. “Can I see some identification first? Your license?”

What is it with people nowadays? They’re such fussbudgets when it comes to inviting perfect strangers into their homes.

“Um…sure.” I rummaged through my purse and whipped out some identification. I flashed it before his watery blue eyes, hoping he wouldn’t realize it was my YWCA card.

No such luck.

“That’s a YWCA card,” he said, squinting at the print.

“Yes, of course,” I said, pedaling furiously. “YWCA. Young Women’s Criminology Association. We get kidded all the time about our name.”

“The Young Women’s Criminology Association?” He scratched his head, sending tiny flakes of dandruff fluttering to his plaid shoulders.

“So may I come in?”

He thought about this for a moment, then must have decided I wasn’t a deranged maniac with a meat cleaver in my purse.

“All right,” he said finally, ushering me in to the living room.

I took one look around and realized that
The Sound of Music
door chimes made perfect sense. The place hadn’t been decorated since Julie Andrews was in dirndls. Lots of harvest gold furniture on an avocado shag rug. A grand piano covered with sepiatoned family photos. And over in the corner, an old console television that was probably still playing
The Ed Sullivan Show.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

I took a seat on a sofa that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in Rob and Laura Petrie’s house. More family photos were propped up on the coffee table in front of me.

“How can I help you?” he asked, lowering himself into an armchair.

“I’m representing Heidi Kingsley.”

“Little Heidi?” He smiled fondly. “Such a sweet girl.”

“Actually, the police think she killed SueEllen.”

His watery blue eyes blinked in disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” he said vehemently. “She couldn’t have.”

Suddenly hope surged in my body. How could he be so sure Heidi hadn’t done it, unless he’d seen the real murderer himself? Was it possible that he witnessed the crime? Had he kept his mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to confess he’d been using his telescope to look at naked ladies? Had I solved the case in less than an hour?

Now all I had to do was get him to tell me what he’d seen. I’d have to go slowly and gently.

“Heidi swears she saw a blonde woman going into SueEllen’s bathroom at the time of the murder, but the cops don’t believe her.”

He squirmed in his chair.

“I was hoping you might have seen someone,” I prodded.

“No, no,” he said, wiping sweat from his freckled brow. “I saw nothing.”

“Are you sure? SueEllen told me you’re a retired astronomy professor. She says you own a telescope. Are you sure you just didn’t happen to be looking through your telescope that day?”

“No,” he insisted, “I saw nothing.”

Obviously, the gentle treatment was getting me nowhere. I decided to go for the jugular.

“Look,” I said. “I lied. I’m not a private eye. Not officially, anyway. I’m a writer. Last week I was working with SueEllen Kingsley, ghostwriting a book.”

“So that was you!” he blurted out. “The one on the toilet bowl. I thought you looked familiar.”

Then, realizing he’d said way too much, he clamped his mouth shut.

“I saw you watching SueEllen through your telescope, Mr. Zeller. She told me you watched her all the time. So I’m asking you again. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone that day?”

“No,” he said, his voice shrill with fear. “I told the police, and I’m telling you. I didn’t see anyone.”

I knew he was lying through his dentures.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said, hoisting himself up from his chair.

Then I spotted one of the photos on the coffee table. Of a teenage girl, with braces and bangs and freckles across her nose.

“This your granddaughter?” I asked, holding it up.

He nodded.

“What if the cops suspected her of murder? Would you sit by silently then?”

He looked at the picture, then at me. Then back at the picture.

“Okay,” he said finally, crumpling back down into his chair. “I saw somebody.”

“A blonde?”

He nodded. “She came into the bathroom while SueEllen was taking her bath.”

“Did you get a good look at her?”

He shook his head. “No. Her back was to me; I couldn’t see her face at all.”

Damn.

“Then the phone rang, and I went to get it. It was one of those irritating telemarketers. By the time I came back, the blonde was gone, and SueEllen was dead.”

He sat there, still stunned at the enormity of what he’d just missed seeing.

“You’ve got to tell the police,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see? I’m in a most awkward position. If I tell the police what I saw, they’ll know that I was watching SueEllen. It’ll be in all the papers. They’ll call me a Peeping Tom, a voyeur. My reputation will be ruined.”

“I’m sure the cops will keep it out of the papers if you want them to.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course.”

“But what about my wife? When Emily finds out what I’ve been doing, it’ll break her heart.”

“Oh, Henry. Don’t be a silly old poop.”

I looked up and saw a pink butterball of a woman standing in the doorway, wearing gardening gloves and a big floppy hat. So that’s who was responsible for those gorgeous roses out front.

Mr. Zeller’s face turned ashen.

“How long have you been listening to us, Emily?”

“Long enough.”

She whipped off her gardening gloves and strode briskly into the room.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been peeking at that tart all these years?”

“You knew?”

“Of course,” she said, pulling off her hat, and shaking out a halo of soft white curls. “What’s the big deal? You watched SueEllen, and I rented Tom Cruise movies. Now get on the phone this instant and call the police. You’ve got to help poor Heidi.”

The dear sweet woman. I felt like kissing the toe of her garden boots.

“Just tell them you were cleaning your telescope,” she said, “and you happened to look in SueEllen’s window.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

“All right, Emily.” Professor Zeller kissed his wife on her powdery cheek.

“Oh, don’t be an old mushbag,” she said, shooing him away.

Then she turned to me.

“I made double fudge brownies for tea. Care to join us?”

What did I tell you? The woman was a saint.

Two brownies later (okay, three brownies later), after thanking the Zellers profusely for calling the police, I bid them a fond farewell.

“You stop by any time you want, honey,” Mrs. Zeller said. “I like to see a girl with a healthy appetite.”

I drove back home, feeling quite proud of myself. True, Professor Zeller hadn’t seen the actual murder. But he
had
seen a blonde. Which meant Lt. Webb would have to take Heidi’s story seriously.

To atone for the three brownies I’d eaten (okay, four brownies), I made a solemn vow to skip dinner. I made this vow approximately half a block before pulling in to a Burger King and ordering a Whopper to go. I promised myself I’d eat just a few bites, then save the rest for breakfast. Which, incidentally, is one of the many things I like about being single. I can eat a Whopper for breakfast without The Blob lecturing me about healthy eating over his bowl of Froot Loops. Yes, I vowed, as I ordered extra fries, I’d just eat a few teensy bites and save the rest for breakfast.

I bet you think I came home and ate the whole thing in one sitting. No way. Unh-unh. As promised, I took a few bites and put the rest in the refrigerator. Where it sat for a whole thirty seconds before I got it out and snarfed it down, tossing chunks of burger to Prozac who stood yowling at my feet. Yes, I realize that a burger was the last thing I needed after four fudge brownies (okay, five fudge brownies), but I figured I’d just skip breakfast, thus not changing my planned calorie intake one itty bitty calorie.

After fighting Prozac for the last fry (Prozac won), I headed off to the shower. I still couldn’t face the tub, not after what I’d seen yesterday.

Standing there under the hot spray, I realized how exhausted I was. Frankly, I hadn’t slept well last night with Heidi in the bed. It had been ages since I’d shared a bed with another human being (if you consider The Blob human). I’d hovered on my side of the bed, trying not to move, afraid I’d roll over onto Heidi in the middle of the night. After an hour or so of this, I gave up and trudged to the living room, where I slept fitfully on the sofa.

Now I got out of the shower and toweled off, too tired to even consider blow-drying my unruly mop. I took a feeble pass at brushing my teeth, then slipped on my nightgown and headed to bed where I fully intended to spend the night spread-eagled, watching old
Lucy
re-runs.

For a minute, I just lay there, blowing my breath into my cupped hands and smelling the pickles and onions from my Whopper. I considered getting up and gargling, but decided to conserve my energy for something more important. Like reaching for the remote.

Minutes later, I was watching Lucy stuck in a meat locker, icicles dripping from her eyelashes, when the phone rang. I reached for it groggily, and Kandi’s voice came booming on the line.

“So? Are you excited?”

“About what?” I yawned.

“Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“Forgot what?”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “You did forget.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your date. With Ted Lawson.”

I bolted up in bed.

Damn. Tommy The Termite. I’d forgotten all about him. What time did he say he’d pick me up? Seven-thirty. And it was now—aaack!—seven twenty-four.

“Kandi, honey, gotta run. He’s gonna be here in six minutes, and I’m not dressed.”

“Jaine, Jaine, Jaine,” Kandi said, sighing deeply. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Okay, so I forgot. I’ve got other things on my mind.”

Like a dead body floating in a bathtub, for one.

I hung up, after promising Kandi I’d meet her for brunch the next day to discuss the details of my date.

Then I tore out of bed and practically flew into my bra and panties. I threw on a pair of jeans and a black cashmere turtleneck, which I saw to my dismay was covered in cat hair.

“Prozac!” I shrieked. “How many times have I told you: No napping on my sweaters!”

Darn cat didn’t even bother to look up from where she was licking her privates. Oh, well. There was no time to change. I’d have to stick with my cat/cashmere blend.

I pulled on my boots and hurried to the bathroom to throw on some blush. And then disaster struck: I saw myself in the mirror. Aaack! My hair! I hadn’t blown it straight, and now I looked like Elsa Lancaster in
The Bride of Frankenstein.
At which point, the doorbell rang. I grabbed a rubber band and yanked my ball of frizz into a ponytail.

I only hoped Tommy the Termite didn’t mind being seen in public with a woman with pickle-and-onion breath who looked like she’d just stuck her finger in an electric socket.

As I hurried to the door, I cursed myself for saying yes to this date in the first place. I wasn’t ready for romance. Not now. Not yet. Not while the memory of The Blob still lingered in my brain.

And then I opened the door.

Standing there before me was a tall guy with dark curly hair and the kind of classically sculpted face you find on a Michelangelo statue or a daytime soap.

“You must be Jaine.”

He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

“These are for you,” he said, handing me a darling bouquet of daisies.

Hmmm. Maybe this dating thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

Y
ou know how it is when you’re dreading something and you’re dragging your heels and you finally force yourself to go, and it turns out to be a wonderful surprise and you’re glad you made yourself do it?

Well, that may have happened to you, but it sure didn’t happen to me. My date with Ted Lawson, aka Tommy the Termite, was an utter disaster, the Titanic of blind dates.

Sure, Ted was handsome. But he was also a self-centered, self-serving cheapskate egomaniac. And those were his good points.

At the beginning, of course, I didn’t know all this. I was actually foolish enough to think it might be a pleasant evening. After putting the daisies in water and saying goodbye to Prozac, we headed outside to Ted’s “previously owned” Mercedes. It was previously owned, all right. No doubt by a member of the Soprano family. I do not lie when I tell you there were bullet holes on the passenger side of the car. My first omen that the evening was not going to be the date of my dreams. An omen I should have paid attention to.

“I made reservations at a terrific restaurant in Westwood,” Ted said. “You’re going to love it.”

So we drove over to Westwood Village, the Mercedes belching noxious plumes of smoke into the air. Ted spent the entire time talking about the traffic he encountered on the 405 freeway on his way to pick me up. (It was bumper to bumper all the way from Ventura to Santa Monica Boulevard, in case you’re interested.) Okay, so it wasn’t the snappiest conversation I’d ever heard. But I figured maybe he was nervous. Or maybe he was a traffic aficionado. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

About half a mile away from Westwood, he pulled into a residential street and parked the car.

“I thought we were going to Westwood,” I said.

“We are.”

“But it’s at least a dozen blocks away.”

“I know,” he said, checking his profile in the rearview mirror, “I thought it would be fun to get some exercise.”

Translation:
I’m too cheap to spring for valet parking. Or a parking lot. Or even metered parking.

So we trekked sixteen blocks (but who’s counting?) in the damp night air into Westwood. You’ll be glad to know Ted had stopped talking about traffic on the 405. Now he was talking about traffic on the 110.

“You should have seen it. There was a semi jackknifed across three lanes. Traffic was backed up for miles in both directions.”

Well, at least those people were sitting comfortably in their cars, not clomping through the fog in tight boots. By now, my feet were killing me, and my hair was so wiry, you could’ve used it to scour pots.

At last we made it to Westwood.

“Right this way,” Ted said, taking me by the hand. Up ahead I could see an Arby’s. For a frightening instant I thought that’s where we were going. After all, Ted had made me trek halfway across town to save a buck on a parking meter.

But no, he lead me past Arby’s to a charming restaurant nestled in an old brick building. Hmm. Maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Maybe he wasn’t a cheapskate. Maybe he really did want to get some exercise. After all, he was an actor. He had to keep in shape.

The maitre d’ greeted us warmly and led us to a cozy corner table for two. The place was tastefully elegant, with soft lighting, exposed brick walls, and a bud vase of fresh cut orchids at our table.

As I sat down, the waistband of my jeans dug painfully into my gut, thanks to those five brownies and the Whopper I’d snarfed down earlier. Why the heck hadn’t I worn the elastic waist outfit I’d worn to SueEllen’s party? Oh, well. Maybe I could manage to sneak open the button on my waistband when Ted wasn’t looking.

Our waiter (a slim young man whom I’ll call Kevin because that’s what nine out of ten waiters in Los Angeles are called) slipped us our menus.

“You don’t mind if I order for both of us?” Ted asked.

“Yes, actually, I do mind. I don’t like it when people presume to know what I feel like eating.”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I didn’t have a chance to say that, because before I knew it, Ted was giving Kevin our order.

“We’ll share a cup of soup, and two coffees for dessert.”

Uh-oh. It was going to be an Arby’s night, after all.

“Haha! Gotcha!” he said, poking me most annoyingly in my ribs, and then adding, “Somebody at this table could stand to work on her abs.

“Actually,” he told Kevin, “we’ll have the lobster bisque, heirloom tomato salad, chateaubriand for two, and crème brulee for dessert. Make sure the soup is hot, really hot, and the steak is bloody rare. You like it rare, don’t you, Jaine?”

No, I don’t, but it didn’t matter, because he didn’t wait for me to answer.

“And bring us a bottle of the Jordan cabernet.”

I happened to know that the Jordan cab cost sixty dollars. You know how I happened to know? Because Ted told me.

“This wine costs sixty bucks,” he boomed, for all the world to hear.

It was a good thing I’d eaten that Whopper and five brownies. Because, as it turned out, Ted kept sending everything back. The soup was too cold, the salad was too warm, the wine was too “new,” and the steaks were too well done.

I was convinced that the chefs and waiters were lined up in the kitchen taking turns spitting in our food.

By the time our corrected dishes were finally brought out to us, I had totally lost what little appetite I’d started out with.

Yes, it was truly the Dinner from Hell. I’d long since popped the button on my waistband. I didn’t care whether or not Ted noticed. But he didn’t notice. He was too busy talking about his favorite topic—Ted.

I heard about his childhood, his adolescence, his college years, his three ex-wives (all of them bitches), and his career. Oh, did I hear about his career. I heard about every part he’d ever played, starting with the time he played a rutabaga in his kindergarten production of
Our Vegetable Friends.

I tried valiantly to tune him out, but I couldn’t. His voice bored into my skull like a vise in a medieval torture chamber.

Not once did he ask me about myself. I stand corrected. Once. Here’s how it went:

Him: “Kandi tells me you’re a writer.”

Me: “Yes, I—”

Him: “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. And I’ve got a great idea, too. All about an actor in Hollywood. One of these days, when I’ve got a few weeks to spare, I’m going to write it.”

And so it went, on and on and on, until I wanted to impale him on my butter knife. Finally, our busboy cleared away our dinner plates. I’d barely touched my bloody rare steak. I couldn’t. It was practically still alive.

“For a gal with your build, you’re not much of an eater, are you?” Ted asked with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

But I didn’t care. He could hurl veiled insults at me all he wanted. Because at last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’d finished the main course. Now all I had to do was make it through dessert and this ghastly ordeal would be over. Somehow I managed not to ball up my napkin and shove it down his throat while Ted rambled on about his life as a cartoon character.

Finally, I saw Kevin approaching with our dessert, a gorgeous crème brulee. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself when I realized that I actually wanted to eat it. But the diet fairy must have been looking out for me, because just as I cracked open the golden crust with my fork, Ted whipped it away from me.

“Just a sec,” he said, pulling a Baggie from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. And then, before my horrified eyes, he took out a dead cockroach and plopped it into the crème brulee.

“What are you doing?” I managed to gasp.

“Getting us a free meal. Don’t worry,” he winked. “This works every time.”

He snapped his fingers, summoning our waiter.

Kevin, who’d grown to loathe us with each succeeding course, came warily to our side.

“Yes, sir?”

“What sort of a restaurant is this?” Ted exploded. “Look what we found in our crème brulee. A cockroach. I want to see the manager.”

By now the other diners were sneaking covert looks in our direction.

“No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “Accidents happen.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ted said, shooting me a look. “I want to see the manager immediately.”

Kevin scurried off to the kitchen. Minutes later, a red-faced man in a chef’s toque approached our table.

“You’re not satisfied with your meal, sir?” he said, smiling pleasantly.

“Of course not,” Tommy boomed. Now the other diners were openly staring. “Look at this. A roach in our crème brulee. You don’t expect us to pay for this meal, do you?”

“I certainly do.”

Then he leaned over and said, not so pleasant anymore: “We’re on to you, asshole.”

Ted blinked in surprise.

“This cockroach didn’t come from our kitchen,” the chef said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It came from your jacket pocket. The busboy saw you take it out.”

“That’s a lie,” Ted said, oozing righteous indignation. “You’re going to take his word over mine?”

Then someone at a nearby table piped up. “I saw it, too. It was in a Baggie.”

“Pay up,” said the chef in a steely voice, “or I call the police.”

And with that he plunked our bill down on the table.

Smiling feebly, Ted handed it to me. One hundred and ninety six dollars. Without the tip.

“Would you mind?” he said. “I forgot my credit card.”

“You arrogant jerk! You expect me to pay $200 for the most hellish night of my life?”

Okay, so I didn’t say that. No, my exact words were, “Do you take the Discover Card?”

By now, the whole restaurant was buzzing with excitement at this moment of dining drama.

Willing to do anything to end my misery, I forked over my credit card, and counted the milliseconds till Kevin came back with my receipt. I gave him a twenty percent tip for all the abuse he’d put up with. Then I asked him to call me a cab.

“Don’t you want me to drive you home?” Ted asked. “Maybe we can stop off at Baskin-Robbins for a cone. I’ve got a two-for-one coupon.”

I managed to fight back the impulse to strangle him.

“Go away, Ted.”

“Can I call you some time?”

“No, you can never call me. Not under any circumstances. Not even if you should attain last-man-on-earth status.”

“Your loss,” he said, shrugging. “A girl with your thighs shouldn’t be so fussy.”

Then he got up and strolled out the door, but not before grabbing a fistful of mints on his way out.

I thought I’d wait inside until the cab showed up, but it was far too painful. People kept looking at me and shaking their heads, either in disgust or pity, I wasn’t sure which. I could swear I overheard one of them say, “I saw her pop the button on her waistband.”

No, I had to get out of there. I grabbed my purse and started for the entrance when suddenly I heard someone call my name.

“Jaine?”

Whoever it was, I prayed they were calling some other Jane, some Jane who spelled her name the sensible way.

“Jaine Austen, is that you?”

I turned around, and who should I see, but Mrs. Pechter. Oh, God. Now everyone at Shalom would know about my humiliation.

“Jaine, dear, come here,” she said, motioning me to her table.

Smiling stiffly, I headed over to her table, where I saw that she was sitting with an absolutely adorable guy. Spiky sandy hair, green eyes, and an amazing smile. Really, this guy was cute with a capital C.

“Jaine, say hello to my grandson Morris.”

This was Morris, the accountant? The grandson she wanted to fix me up with? I groaned softly. Did I really pass up a date with this dollburger to go out with Tommy the Termite?

Mrs. Pechter looked up at me through her bifocals and shook her head, pityingly.

“Was that your boyfriend? The one with the cockroach?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“So what were you doing having dinner with him?”

Would this nightmare never end?

“Oh, look, there’s my cab!” I lied. “Gotta run. See you in class.”

I hurried outside, where the fog had now turned to an ugly drizzle. The cab, of course, was nowhere in sight.

The valet parkers whispered among themselves; obviously they’d heard about L’Affaire Cockroach. I guess they must have felt sorry for me, because one of them asked me if I’d like some coffee while I waited for my cab. I nodded gratefully, and minutes later, he came out with a styrofoam cup of coffee.

And as I stood there, huddled in the doorway, a well-heeled couple came walking by. The next thing I knew the man took out a ten-dollar bill and dropped it in my coffee cup.

Dear Lord. He thought I was a panhandler.

“Go get yourself a hot meal, honey,” he said. “There’s an Arby’s down the street.”

A perfect ending to a perfect night.